


Teachers Gone Rogue

by Meowbowwow



Series: The Smut Tales Of 221B [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, Teacher AU, fics describing author's own sexual frustration, handjobs, wireless remote controlled bullet vibrator has a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>English teacher Sherlock and Maths teacher John being filthy all over the school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teachers Gone Rogue

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Nicky.

John waited outside the class, a stack of notebooks creasing under his arms, finger nails slightly scratching the name stickers as Sherlock moved effortlessly between desks and read Keats aloud.

"...fled is that music. Do I wake, or sleep?" He sighed, familiar irritation at the kids not listening to a word he had said lurking just beneath the surface as the bell rang and John's view was lost behind heads that were too tall for the comfort of 8th grade. He didn't notice Sherlock gliding out from the room and taking him gently by the elbow, they maneuvered through the crowd of chattering and loud kids, untangling their bunched up headphones and unaware of long fingers travelling gently from John's elbow and interlocking with his fingers. A quick word and he was gone, leaving John with something cinnamon and tobacco on his lips.

 

***

 

Unused classrooms overworked the devil that was Sherlock's mind and not even mistakes in "its" and "it's" could deter him from drumming his fingers over John's left knee, the pads of his thumb rubbing over the fabric behind and elbow resting dangerously close to his crotch, perhaps even intentionally. Definitely, intentionally. His right hand wielded the red pen mercilessly, red circles covering pencil scribbled pages and a few exclamations escaping him every now and then. As the drumming became faster and the elbow rested heavily against his groin, John's mind refused to work out the square root 225 and he thought it was time some words were exchanged.

"Uhm, Sherlock?"

"Hmm...?" The scratching of the pen was loud and John's breath hitched up when Sherlock started rubbing his elbow against the straining front of his pants.

"Someone might come in, oh god!" His hand crumpled the bundle of papers and he wondered how Sherlock could manage that with his left hand and still put three perfect question marks next to a made up Shelley verse by a student.

"Then they'll know about the teacher's rules of keeping each other happy," he carefully put the papers inside his black folder with his right hand, while his left one sneaked up John's left thigh, long fingers teasing the seam as they played with the zipper.

"John, you know how Professor Sarah was asking you to get contacts?"

"Hmm." John managed.

"Yeah, well, don't." He nibbled on the lobe, tongue working behind and around the temple tips of the glasses and whispered a hundred filthy things in John's ears until he was begging for it. Then, he let him finish and cleaned him up with the Shelley faker's paper.

 

***

 

People don't usually notice John. His students love him, sure and they look up to him but no one notices when a hand pushes him into an empty loo on the 4th floor and closes the door behind them when he lets out a surprised yelp. Sherlock kisses him once before roughly turning him around, giving him very little time to brace himself against the tiled wall, pulls down his pants and fucks him with his tongue till John's sweaty prints are smeared in the tiles forever. After Sherlock leaves him ravaged and claimed like that, John wanks again and still can't get the ache of the orgasm out of his bones.

 

***

 

It's a field trip and some kids are singing as the bus rocks and swivels quietly, they rattle on. John's thin white shirt sticks to his torso because of the heat outside, he adjusts his jeans and slumps down at the back seat, next to Sherlock where he's replying to Scotland Yard's mails. Sherlock thinks aloud and when he doesn't, there is still a lot to hear. He's thinking, his mind is working louder than the bus' engines. Slowly, his free hand snakes around John's waist. The bus is full of people, there isn't any chance of heaving kids paying any attention to their sex starved professors. Well, not really but they are not being indecent. Until now.

The bus screeches to a halt and John leans forward, Sherlock merely sways and his hand travels under John's shirt and up his back before everyone's backs hit the seats. John sits there, frozen as the fingers start exploring. First the back of the belt of his jeans, a small tug. Then he dips the tip of his forefinger on the bare waist John is very sensitive around and John thanks the deities for awarding him the seat that is somewhat blocked from view.  The hands write words on his back every time they hit a speed bump, filthy words John knows Sherlock likes to be called, obscene things he loves calling him when his hands are fisted in those curly locks and he fucks Sherlock's greedy mouth in dark alleyways. Some kids laugh and Sherlock scoots closer, barely noticeable, hand circling him and reaching his nipple. They are almost shaking with nervous energy and John lets out a nervous laugh of protest before leaning forward and resting his head against the seat at the front. _If he can't see them, they won't see him_. He repeats it until he believes.

Now, Sherlock can twist his wrist, he is inside John's flimsy excuse of a shirt from elbow down. John knows why he wore that shirt. So does Sherlock. The pretext of texting is gone, Sherlock's phone slides into his pocket soundlessly and he braces against his own knee, stroking John's sides, mouth twitching on every jump John makes, on every sound afford to let escape when the song reaches a high. He traces his ribs, he does the routine of John’s when Sherlock is fisting the sheets and John explores his body with his tongue. Ribs, 1-2-3-4, nipple, left, Ribs, 1-2-3-4, nipple, right. He can't reach the right one, so his fingers skip that. Stomach, navel, in, out, circle, wait, again. John breathes in, Sherlock flattens his hand against the hollow his stomach makes and circles his navel with his little finger when he exhales. He's wet, he's sure people will find out what he's been up to if they take one look at his crotch. The mere thought gives him a new high. They enter a tunnel and Sherlock licks the shell of his right ear.   
"Come for me," he whispers.

John groans loudly and comes when the bus is the quietest and Sherlock's hands are back in his lap. 

***

  
They have the biggest fight they have had in ages. Mycroft Holmes almost picks up his phone to goad Sherlock but decides against it when they end up, as usual, tangled on the couch. Too many tongues are in Mycroft’s line of vision to be adequately sarcastic. He bleaches his brain to get off the filthy words he hears out of his brother’s mouth but also calls up Headmaster Lestrade for a coffee. At his place. Against the wall.

“You are a possessive git, you know that!” John mutters as Sherlock shamelessly rubs himself on his thigh like a horny dog.

“Sherlock!” John withdraws when Sherlock doesn’t respond and stands away from him, displaying great will power and perseverance.

“Come back!” Sherlock has this weird idea, not without reason, that when he uses his commanding voice, John would flail like a Victorian maid and give his ever so useful mouth to Sherlock. He doesn’t.

“No. And you know what? You’re not getting any of this until you learn to behave.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and makes a rude gesture as John hurries to his room, absolutely naked under Sherlock’s best dressing gown. The next half an hour is spent by Sherlock trying to ambush John while he’s taking a bath, getting angry and hiding his clothes like the perfectly mature adult he is and in the end, giving up and sitting in his perfect suit on the couch, chewing on a piece of toast with the most morose expression possible. People at a funeral would have been put to shame and disgrace with the drooping lower lip and unfocussed eyes, a particular symptom of Sherlock Holmes not getting morning sex because of angering John Watson. Same old, same old.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters against the wet hairs on John’s nape when he returns, and kisses the side of his neck once, just to be sure. John shrugs and continues retrieving the cup he knows Sherlock has placed on the highest of shelves to make him miserable.

“It annoys me.”  
“I know. I’m sorry,” he gets a chaste peck for that and wonders what he would have to say to get some tongue.   
“Sarah is just a friend.”  
“I know.”  
“And Lestrade is my mate. Also, he’s with your brother, I think.”  
“I’m certain he’s diddl-”  
“Yes, that’s enough poetry for the morning.”  
“So, maybe we can get a quickie before leaving? We still have 10 more minutes.”  
“Yes, or…”  
“Or what?” John senses his impatience and smirks.  
“Or I could fuck you into oblivion if you show me how truly sorry you are.”

Sherlock knows this is not going to end well for him. And yet, he agrees because what is he if not brave and horny. While he sorts his briefcase and shoves Shakespeare inside as acrimoniously he can, John brings a bullet vibrator, wireless and remote controlled, as pink as the dress of the dead woman from their first case and gestures at Sherlock to unbuckle.

“Oh, really?” Sherlock groans but still bends over and hides his anticipation.   
“Yes. 10 speed settings for “optimal pleasure”.

He does the routine work and slaps Sherlock’s behind before leaving to wash his hands.

“And I have to wear this all day?”  
“Yes.”  
“Because?”  
“Because you want to get the fucking of your life at the end of the day and because you always need to be taught a lesson.” John wears his cardigan that day and carefully puts the remote on the inside pocket.

Well.

***

 

The students are too stupid to notice their Professor moving gingerly across the table and avoiding sitting. They also fail to observe how their ever so restful Professor is not walking as he reads out a few choice papers from their last lecture.

“So, the three people who actually believe that Ophelia “led Hamlet on” get an F and believe me, if it were possible for me to fail you three for the rest of the term, I would but alas, I- BUGGERING HELL.” Sherlock almost doubles up and Molly Hooper rushes in his direction. She is his best and most… dedicated student who has had a crush on Sherlock for a long time. As Sherlock tries to compose himself, muttering something about a bad porridge, she touches his arm, concern written all over her face and the speed setting goes 2 levels up.

“I am fine. Really, Molly, it’s okay, just- ugh,” another level, “-go back to your seat.” John winks at him from the window, pretending to tie his shoe lace and not making any efforts to hide his extremely smug smile.

The next time it happens, Sherlock clutches the flat wall for support as he’s striding into the cafeteria, somehow used to the sticky wetness and the ache in his abdomen by now. His appetite is deader than usual and he slips the apple inside his pocket. He was going to make some joke about “keeping the professor away” but that has, sadly, fled his mind because of the anal stimulation he’s getting. He’s pretty sure he’s on 9 now because all he can think about when he watches John chewing his salad and smiling, hand casually leaving his pocket, is to have him take Sherlock right there on the cafeteria floor. It obviously shows on his face because John makes a mock sad face and gives quite a performance of wiping the mayonnaise off the side of his thumb.

Sometime between Sherlock’s apple and John’s coffee, it reaches 10 and the thin mist of sweat on Sherlock’s upper lip does nothing to bring John down from his heaven. Sherlock’s pretty sure he’s made lasting marks on his lower lip from worrying it too much.

_This is fun, you know. We should do this more often. Meet me in the teacher’s lounge in 5. – JW_

Sherlock doesn’t even notice John leave. He rushes out of the cafeteria, skating past suspicious eyes and shouts asking him if he’s okay. “Buggering Fuck,” is all he can manage when the vibrator shuts off, and Sherlock is surprised that he misses it.

He is, if possible, more frustrated now, especially because John didn’t mention _which_ teacher’s lounge. Obviously, he finds him in the last one he looks in.

The moment he enters, John pins him against the wall and Sherlock kisses him like he’s drowning for it.

“So, do you want me to start it again?”  
“No- Yes… I don’t know. Oh god, John.”  
“Hmm?”  
“Stop teasing me!”  
“I’m not teasing you, love.” He leaves a bite under his jaw for good measure and worries it with his teeth while Sherlock gasps.   
“Someone could come in here, you know.”  
“Oh Sherlock, you must really be out of your wits. It’s school picnic. I’m surprised you don’t remember it given how you behaved at the last one.” He adds another one near his collar bone, Sherlock’s shirt’s top button is missing somewhere and he wants to protest at the manhandling but he is enjoying this too much to utter anything more than sighs and groans.

John never takes charge; there has been a time or two when he has initiated it but nothing more than that, and even in those times, he let Sherlock lead. It was one of the things that surprised Sherlock about John and he thought it was just one of those weird stereotypical rules about people being opposite in bed than what they appeared to be. Apparently, he was wrong because the way John’s quiet strength has imposed itself on him, pinning his hands above his head and mercilessly working his mouth over his Adam’s apple, it is clear that John is rather good at it.

“You’re in your head again,” he emerges, smiling kindly and giving his erection a squeeze. The sound Sherlock makes would have sounded unwarranted for an onlooker, if someone was lucky enough to be one, but he’d been itching to touch himself all day. He hadn’t, though. He knew he’d be breaking some unspoken rule of their deal and heaven knows how John would react.

“Ugh, fuck me.” He manages between gasps and trying to thrust in the air.  
“Didn’t hear that.” John is _very_ good at this and in spite of himself, Sherlock finds himself loving this side of him.  
“Fuck me. _Please._ ” His wrists loosen and he immediately responds by grabbing John’s arse, pulling him closer for fiction.

“Not like this,” John whispers, after being thoroughly snogged.   
“On that chair, bend over and let’s do this the old fashioned way, yeah?” Sherlock nods and pulls his trousers down but when he tries to kick his shoes off, John stops him. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed him getting the lube out but one look from John and his feet stop. He dutifully braces himself against the back of the couch and lets John slowly pull the vibrator out. Cold air burns him and before he can protest, gentle and firm fingers are probing him. John puts two at once and Sherlock exhales audibly, revelling at the feeling of being full, the slight burn egging him on and his erection leaking freely, trapped between him and the side of the couch. When John reaches the bundle of nerves, he doesn’t take his fingers out but quietly works on pulling his belt down, talking to Sherlock in shaky breaths the whole time.

“So, have you learnt your lesson, Sherlock?”  
“Oh yes, just fuck me, please.” John catches the bundle between his fingers and Sherlock’s eyes roll at the back of his head.   
“You’ll stop this getting angry at every moving thing I talk to, won’t you?” Sherlock’s head’s filled with images of John lubing himself up with one hand as his fingers slowly move out of him, leaving him as helpless as ever.  
“Yes, Yes!” He starts rubbing himself against the couch now, achingly slow even though he has been teetering on the edge the entire day. 

“Good. Now tell me- What’s the surface area of a sphere?” Sherlock almost snaps his neck when he looks back, John barely breaching him with the head of his erection, sweat misting his brow and hand snaking down to Sherlock’s front.  
“I- 4 _π_ r2.” He almost sobs his reply. When John pushes inside him, not gently but smoothly in one go, Sherlock arches his back, pushing into John’s fist. Any plans John had of tormenting Sherlock mathematically fall apart because once he starts, he can’t stop. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air and the room smells of sex, John and oh god, sex.

Needless to say, when they finish, pretty quickly by their standards, Sherlock knows he would never be able to look at that couch again without thinking about this moment. That is, if Lestrade doesn’t kick them out for indecency because the couch’s side is quite a sight.

Sherlock’s thighs ache from exertion and they slump down together, Sherlock sliding gingerly to put his head on John’s shoulder who is now cleaning them up.

“So, John?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Who was that blonde you were chatting up at the bar last week?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd, so feel free to point out stuff. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> xx  
> Meow


End file.
